What Francogate Really Means

Back in the day, even if you were a super duper megafan, chances of bedding your idol were slim to none. To quote Jenna Elfman (as a wing-wearing stripper in the classic teen flick Can't Hardly Wait): "When I was 16, I had the biggest thing for Scott Baio," she starts. "I always knew that somehow, if I wanted it bad enough, I could make it happen." As the story goes, the character shows up at the mall to make eyes at her teen idol during a scheduled appearance. But in the presence of his greatness, she freezes. "I never even talked to him, and he was right there," she laments sadly. "There is fate, but it only takes you so far," she concludes. "Because once you're there, it's up to you to make it happen."

Unless you live in 2014—in which case all it takes is a quick DM (direct message) to get you right back in the game. As the Internet sets aflame with reports that James Franco tried to seduce a 17-year-old Scottish woman via Instagram (which, of course, is creepy and reprehensible), it seems to me that there's also a bigger issue at hand: the glowing prospect of celebrity access. As it's so-often discussed, the advent of social media platforms such as Instagram and Twitter has allowed for an unprecedented level of VIP interaction: If you tickle a star's funny bone, she might just RT you; if you spam his feed enough times, maybe he'll take notice and respond. (Be still, my Beliebing heart.)

For example, after I interviewed Paris Hilton in January, she Tweeted her 12.7 million followers about how "sweet, smart & cool" I was. (#nbd.) To be honest, it was a crowning achievement in my career. But more impactful than the realization that Paris Hilton took the time to find my Twitter handle—which is followed by a mere 405 followers, at least 200 of whom only follow me because of her—was the longtail jealousy that followed.

Almost every day since the heiress Tweeted at me, I have received a DM from a stranger asking how I got so lucky. (The less green-eyed fans choose to "favorite" the sentiment instead.) It's a cool, bizarre, and flattering brush with fame that has left a strange taste in my mouth. After all, when I Tweeted at Paris during the Sundance Film Festival, she never responded. Just as quickly as she deemed me special and worthy of 1:1 interaction, she moved on. To this day, whenever anyone asks what I think of Paris Hilton, I tell them how personable, sweet, and down to earth I found her to be. How much of that is predicated on the complimentary Tweet? A lot of it.

With a quick bedside selfie, a self-deprecating Tweet, or a measured dose of emoji-filled, fan-adoring humility, an untouchable star can add dimension to his or her profile. So the idea that Franco not only noticed a fan who was taking a video of him, but asked that she tag him in it—a split-second decision, surely—communicates a level of intimacy never before seen on the red carpet. Prior to social media, how could an A-lister express gratitude? By saying thank you and smiling warmly? By giving someone a hug? The former feels flat; the latter feels dangerous. (How many times did a Beatle lose a lock of hair after braving a sea of rabid female fans?)

Yes, social media interaction is the perfect solution—until it's not. Playing with wi-fi fire doesn't always result in a virtual slap on the wrist (see: Anthony Weiner).

After Francogate, the Palo Alto writer/star's reputation is in hot water with whistle-blowing journalists. Some outlets are chalking the whole scandal up to another elaborate publicity stunt—this time for Palo Alto, which is about a teacher (Franco) who seduces a student (Emma Roberts)—from the media-ambivalent actor. Francophiles, however, are seething that he didn't take the moment to acknowledge them instead.

The idea that you could be on the receiving end of celebrity seduction can be intoxicating. I have a girlfriend who frequents Nolita's Spring Lounge because she heard John Mayer picks up chicks there. (And how many women reconsidered the dog park after learning that Josh Lucas met his former wife while playing fetch with Fido?) There are even Reddit threads devoted to the fantasy of sex with a star. I'd be lying if I said we didn't share our own celebrity conquest brag stories at the ELLE.com offices (two words: Andrew Keegan).

Nevertheless, Franco's recent gaffe only reinforces the idea that we all could be one DM away from A-list pillow talk. And for every #SMH comment Franco receives, he'll get another #DTF message of encouragement. In the end, there's no real resolution here. He didn't break any laws (as his fans are quick to mention, the age of sexual consent in New York City is 17); and furthermore, just because you fantasize about something doesn't mean you plan on taking action. It just means you're curious. And when has curiosity ever killed anyone?

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